Page 20 of Midnight Mate
“We should—” Clint glanced at the clock. “Shit. Twenty minutes.”
“Then we better clean up.” Bayne’s grin was pure satisfaction, like a wolf that had caught exactly what it was hunting.
In the bathroom, Clint glanced at himself in the mirror. Hair completely wrecked, lips swollen and red, a vivid mark blooming on his throat where Bayne had used teeth. He looked thoroughly debauched.
“Janet’s going to know.” He touched the mark, watching it darken under pressure.
“Good.” Bayne appeared behind him, arms wrapping around his waist.
The way the guy stared at him? Liquid oxygen.
“Ready?” Bayne asked, hand on the small of Clint’s back.
No. Not even close. But Clint nodded anyway, Bayne guiding him out into the afternoon heat, his legs still unsteady and mouth still tasting like sin.
The drive back to the clinic felt like a walk of shame crossed with a victory lap. Every mile reminded him of what they’d just done, muscles protesting in the best way. Beside him, Bayne looked like his usual confident self, but Clint caught him adjusting himself twice.
Good. Mutual destruction.
Janet’s expression when they walked in told him everything he needed to know about how obvious they were being. Her blue eyes went from Clint’s wrecked appearance to Bayne’s satisfied smirk and back again.
“Mrs. Kowalski’s car broke down,” Clint said, going for casual and failing. “Had to help her.”
“Uh-huh.” Janet’s tone said she knew what had happened afterward. “Mrs. Peterson is in room three with her iguana.”
Right. Back to work. Back to pretending he hadn’t just had his world rearranged in his own kitchen. Back to being professional while his body still hummed with aftershocks.
Clint grabbed his lab coat, hoping it would hide the worst of the wrinkles. In the hallway mirror, he caught sight of himself—flushed, glassy-eyed, looking exactly like someone who’d just been thoroughly handled.
Perfect. His reputation as the responsible, boring vet was officially deceased.
Behind him, Bayne appeared in the mirror’s reflection, and the look he gave Clint promised this was far from over.
Chapter Six
Midnight narrowed the road to a ribbon of dirt. Crickets chirped in the ditch where rainwater sat stale beside the dirt lane. Farther on, the abandoned mill loomed as a dark block against a low ceiling of clouds, its broken letters still spelling something about feed and grain if you squinted.
Crouching low, Zeppelin crept through the overgrown weeds. A dozen of his pack followed, their forms melting into the deep shadows cast by the derelict structure.
The air hung thick with the scent of damp earth and decay, a smell that did little to mask the acrid tang of chemicals emanating from the squat house ahead. He raised a hand, fingers splayed, and felt the forward momentum halt behind him. Around them, the night was a quiet hum of crickets, a peaceful sound for a place that held none.
A wet strand of ivy snagged Zeppelin’s sleeve. He didn’t shake it off. Movement drew attention, and attention drew trouble. A hand settled on his shoulder for half an instant—Vaughn—then withdrew.
Counting windows came next. Two on the west side of the house, one cracked and patched with tape. One small basement window half buried in weeds, its iron bars rusted. The porch rail sagged at the front. A back door with a cheap latch and a barrel bolt bright as a coin. On the roof, a cable line drooped, and a weathervane sat, feathers stuck in some parts.
Zeppelin flicked two fingers, and the pack spread out.
They broke off in pairs, silent wraiths detaching from the main group to circle the building. Every window and door became a guarded portal. Once they were set, a new signal—a clenched fist— sent the two largest pack members toward the front door.
The generator at the side coughed and settled into a thrum that threaded through the weeds. That hum would cover a lot of sins if they did this right.
A deafening crack shattered the night as the door splintered inward from its frame. From inside came a cacophony of panicked shouts and tumbling furniture.
Rushing through the doorway came easier than breathing. Bodies scattered across stained carpet, some scrambling for weapons, others diving behind furniture. Broken glass crunched under boots as the pack flooded inside.
To the left, a man in a tank top swung a baseball bat. Vaughn caught it mid-swing, wrenched it from his grip, and drove an elbow into his temple.
The guy folded to the carpet.
